The Navigator (26 page)

A skeletal, three-dimensional image appeared, outlining the ship’s timbers and other structural elements. The spaces between the timbers began to fill in. Decks, oars, rigging, and sail materialized, along with a ramming beak on the prow. The last feature was a carved horse head on the bow.

“
Voilà!
A ship of Tarshish.”

“It’s magnificent,” Gamay said. “The lines are functional yet graceful.”

“She would be around two hundred feet long, as I reckon,” Summers said. “That ship could go anywhere in the world.”

“Which brings us back to our original problem,” Trout said. “How do we figure out that vessel’s transatlantic routes?”

Pursing his lips, Summers said, “It’s possible to back into a solution like those guys did with the
nau
. You’d need wind, current, and weather patterns, work in the ship’s probable speed, figure out the pilot’s choices according to ship design, and then factor in historical accounts.”

Gamay let out a heavy sigh. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Summers glanced at his wristwatch. “Me too. They want the
Atlantis
ready to sail in three days.”

THE TROUTS thanked Summers and walked back along the main street of Woods Hole. “Where do you think we should go from here?” Gamay said.

“Tough to say. Kurt only gave us a few crumbs of information. He’s not going to be happy, but I don’t think we have enough to pull this thing together. We may need another approach.”

Like many married couples, Paul and Gamay had a way of anticipating each other’s thoughts. Their work for the NUMA Special Assignments Team, where unspoken communication could mean the difference between life and death, had honed their skills to a sharp edge.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Gamay said. “Every sea voyage starts on land. Let’s go through the Jefferson file again. There may be something we missed.”

Back at the house, they sat at the kitchen table, read half the file, and then exchanged the sections. They both finished reading at about the same time.

Gamay put the papers down and said, “What pops out at you?”

“Meriwether Lewis,” Trout said. “He was on his way to tell Jefferson what he had found when he died.”

“That intrigued me too.” She riffled through the papers in front of her. “Lewis had
material
evidence he wanted to show Jefferson. I suggest that we try to figure out what happened to it.”

“Might be almost as tough as reconstructing a Phoenician voyage,” Trout said.

“There’s a nexus that might help us,” Gamay said. “Jefferson was president of the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia. He sent Lewis there to prep him in the sciences for his historic exploration. While Lewis was in Philadelphia, Jefferson devised the cipher for them to use.”

Trout blinked his large brown eyes in a barely noticeable show of excitement and picked up the thread. “Jefferson wrote to members of the society to tell them about his Indian language research and the theft of his papers. He contacted a society scholar, who identified the words on the vellum map as Phoenician. The artichoke file was found at the society.”

“That’s better than knowing Kevin Bacon or six degrees of separation,” Gamay said. She looked through the file and found a number for the Philosophical Society and the name of the researcher who had discovered the file. She called Angela Worth, identified herself, and made an appointment to meet the next day.

As Gamay hung up, Trout grinned and said, “You realize our vacation has come to an end.”

“That’s okay,” Gamay said. “I think I’m getting tired of fishing.”

Trout gave a weary shrug of his shoulders.

“I
know
I am,” he said.

WITH A CRUISING SPEED OF more than five hundred miles an hour, the turquoise-colored Cessna Citation X aircraft flew to Istanbul in three hours after a quick refueling stop in Paris. The raked-tail aircraft touched down at Kemal Atatürk International Airport and taxied away from the main terminal. The six passengers went through a special entry gate reserved for VIPs and were politely whisked through customs.

The Subvette had arrived earlier on a special NUMA cargo plane and was being stored in an airport warehouse. Zavala wanted to inspect the submersible to see how it had fared on its journey. He told Austin he would catch a taxi to the excavation after he arranged for the vehicle to be transported to the dig.

Two vans awaited their arrival. One vehicle would take their luggage to their hotel while another went directly to the excavation. The NUMA scientists were eager to get to the site. The team’s leader was a veteran nautical archaeologist named Martin Hanley.

On the transatlantic leg of the flight, Hanley had explained the reason for haste. He had made a preliminary trip to Istanbul to see the port which had been built when the city was still known as Constantinople. The port was found in Yenikapi, on the European side of the narrow Bosphorus Straits, when squatter shanties had been cleared to build a new hub railroad station. The site had been named the Port of Theodosius.

The archaeological excavation could delay construction of a tunnel connecting the European and Asian sides of the city. Hanley and the Turkish archaeologists were worried that important finds could be overlooked in the hurry to excavate the site. He had returned to Washington to assemble his team.

The American scientists were greeted warmly by their Turkish counterparts. Round-the-clock shifts were working the muddy excavation.

“Sure you don’t want to stick around?” Hanley said. “They’ve found a church, eight boats, shoes, anchors, lines, and part of the old city walls. Who knows what treasures they’ll discover next?”

“Thanks. Maybe after we do some sightseeing.”

Austin hailed a cab that took them along Kennedy Caddesi, the busy thoroughfare that runs along the edge of the Bosphorus. An unbroken line of cargo ships was queuing up to pass through the busy connector between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. Austin turned to Carina and said, “How long have you known your Turkish connection?”

“A year or so. Cemil helped me recover some Anatolian treasures that had been stolen from the Topkapi Palace. He used to be a smuggler. No arms or drugs, he says. Cigarettes, appliances, anything that was covered by high tariffs.”

“Is he connected to the Turkish mafia?”

She laughed. “I asked him that. He said that in Turkey
everyone
is in the mafia. He came through for me, but he’s…” Carina’s English failed her for a moment. “How do you say it? Mysterious.”

“I had concluded that. You’re sure he said to meet him at the ‘upside-down woman with the stone eyes’?”

“
Positive.
He likes to talk in riddles. It’s quite maddening at times.”

Austin asked the cab driver to take them to Sultanamet. They got out of the cab and walked across the busy street. “We’ll find your friend right below our feet if I’m not mistaken,” Austin said.

“He’s not the
only
one who talks in riddles.”

Austin went over to a kiosk and bought two admission tickets to the Basilica Cisterns. They went down a flight of stairs. The cool, damp air that brushed their faces felt good after the heat of the city.

They were in a huge, dimly lit vault that resembled an underground palace. Fish darted through the murky green water that covered the floor. Elevated boardwalks ran between rows of columns. Voices echoed in the cavelike chamber. Classical music played in the background. The
drip-drip
of water could be heard from a dozen different locations.

“The Romans had built these cisterns to hold a water supply for the Grand Palace,” Austin said. “The Byzantines discovered them when people started catching fish through holes in the floors of their houses. The stone lady is this way.”

They walked to the end of a boardwalk and descended to a platform. Two thick columns rested on bases carved into the faces of Medusa. One face lay on its side; the other, upside down. A steady stream of tourists came and went, after pausing to take snapshots of the curiosity.

Finally, the only other person left was a middle-aged man who had been there since they arrived. He carried a camera but hadn’t used it. He was wearing dark slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt with no tie, the standard uniform for many Turks. He wore aviator-style sunglasses, although the light was low in the cistern.

“Why do you think the Romans put the heads in this strange position?” he asked Carina, speaking English with a slight accent.

Carina studied the sculptures. “Maybe it’s a joke. One face looks at the world as it should be and the other as it is. Topsy-turvy.”

“Excellent. Would you be Signorita Mechadi?” the man said.

“Cemil?”

“At your service,” he said with a smile. “And this must be your friend, Mr. Austin.”

Austin shook hands with the Turk. After hearing of Cemil’s underworld exploits, he had expected a Damon Runyon character with a Turkish twist. This man looked more like someone’s favorite uncle.

“It’s good to meet you after all our dealings, Señora Mechadi. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for a statue that’s the twin of one stolen from the Iraq National Museum.”

Cemil glanced at a new group of tourists and suggested a walk. As they strolled between rows of columns, he said, “There’s been a steady stream of Baghdad merchandise through Istanbul. It’s depressing prices. Do you have a photograph?”

Austin handed over the
Navigator
figurine. “This is a scale model. The actual statue is almost as tall as a man.”

Cemil produced a loupe-penlight instrument and examined the figurine. He chuckled. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for this artifact.”

“Do you recognize it?” Carina said.

“Oh,
yes
. Come with me.”

Cemil led the way to the exit, and they climbed back into the bright sunlight. The Grand Bazaar was a short tram ride away. The bazaar was a labyrinth of hundreds of shops, restaurants, and cafés, and former caravan-storage depots called
han
s. Politely aggressive proprietors lurked like trap-door spiders ready to pounce on passing tourists and talk them out of their Turkish lira.

They went through the Carsikapi Gate and made their way through the hot, unventilated maze of roofed streets. Cemil navigated the twists and turns as if he were operating on personal radar. He took them deep into the heart of the bazaar and stopped at a small shop.

“Merhaba,”
Cemil said to a man in his sixties who sat in front of the shop, sipping tea and reading a Turkish newspaper. The shopkeeper smiled broadly. Putting the newspaper aside, he rose from his chair and pumped Cemil’s hand.

“Merhaba,”
he said.

“This is Mehmet,” Cemil explained.” He’s an old friend.”

Mehmet brought out comfortable cushions for his guests to sit on and poured tea for everyone. He and Cemil chatted in Turkish. After a few minutes of conversation, Cemil asked Austin for the figurine and handed it to Mehmet. The shopkeeper examined the miniature
Navigator
and nodded vigorously. Using expansive hand gestures, he invited everyone into his shop. Shelves and floor were covered with rugs, jewelry, boxes of tea, scarves, pottery, and red fezes. He walked up to a shelf crowded with pottery and placed the figure next to a row of four identical statues.

Cemil translated his friend’s commentary. “Mehmet says he can give you a deal on these. Normally, they go for eight lira, but he’s willing to drop the price to five if you buy more than one.”

“Does Mehmet remember selling a statue to an American photographer a few years ago?” Austin asked.

Cemil translated the question and the answer. “Mehmet is Turkish. He remembers every sale he ever made. He recalls the photographer very well. Especially with this item, which moves very slowly. But he is old, and memory has not been very good lately.”

“Maybe this will help,” Austin said, “I’ll take all of the figurines.”

Mehmet beamed as he carefully wrapped each statue in tissue paper and placed the purchases in a plastic bag, which he handed to Carina.

“Can your friend tell us where he acquired these statues?” Carina said.

Mehmet explained that he had bought the statues in the south where his mother lives. He tells buyers that they are harem eunuchs. The craftsmanship could be better, and the detail was poorly executed, but he likes the old man who made them. He picks up a batch whenever he visits his aging mother, which is about once a month. The artist sells them in the abandoned village, he said.

“Where is that?” Austin said.

Cemil said, “It’s called Kayakoy, near the town of Fethiye. It was a Greek village until the Treaty of Lausanne was signed in 1923. The Greeks returned to Greece in the exchange and Turks living in Greece came to Anatolia. Then the Turks left after a big earthquake. It’s a tourist attraction now.”

Austin asked the artist’s name. Mehmet said he was sure he’d remember, but first he suggested that Austin and the lovely lady would like to look around the shop. Austin got the hint. He bought a silk scarf for Carina and a fez for himself, even though no self-respecting Turk would be caught dead in the cylindrical headgear.

Bidding Mehmet good-bye, at Cemil’s suggestion they headed to the Haghia Sophia neighborhood for lunch in a pleasantly shaded garden restaurant. While they waited for their food, Cemil said, “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

“
I’m
not sorry,” Carina said. “It gave me the chance to meet you in person, and to thank you for all you have done. Besides, we’re not through here yet.”

“But you have seen that the statues are only a tourist item.”

Austin lined up the figurines on the table. “How far is the town where these were made?”

“It’s on the Turquoise Coast. About five hundred miles. Are you thinking of extending your visit to Turkey?”

Austin picked up a figurine. “I’d like to talk to the artist who made this.”

“So would I,” Carina said. “It’s quite possible he used a life-sized model.”